Back, by popular demand.

     Hi internet! I'm totally back and stuff. Basically, because my one friend who reads this messaged me and was all, "where'd your blog go?" and I was all, OH SHIT I DON'T KNOW.  Fear not, my loyal fan base of approximately 5-10 people, for I am with you.

     A lot has happened since I last wrote.  The Uptown Restaurant finally went under, which we all kind of suspected and "re-opening at a later date" turned into "bought out by a coffee shop." C'est la vie. I now work legit around the corner from The Cafe, aka the original inspiration for this  blog. That's kind of awesome though, because I can visit my Cool Former Boss after my shift at my new job and get free beer which is always a plus. I never visit my Asshole Former Boss because he is an asshole.   Anyway, the new job is pretty decent.  Good money, super laid back, and decent bosses. That said, we're open til 2 on the weekends which does provide its own share of adventures.

Last Friday I was working late and around 1:30 a group of heavily inebriated people came in.  I  made the decision not to serve them booze, but just kind of avoided the mention of alcohol because I hate having that conversation and it's always super awkward. Anyway, after I finally wrangled their food order I noticed one guy seemed to have pulled a bottle of beer from out of who knows where.  We only serve draft beer where I work, so I knew he had to have brought the bottle in from somewhere else, which 1) is trashy and kind of stupid and 2) is illegal (damn open container laws!)

So I went up to him and as politely as I could (believe it or not, I can be super awesome polite if I want to....all those years of theatre training didn't go to waste!) told him that we didn't allow outside beverages and I'd have to take the beer away from him.  He gave me a stunned look, and said :

"But it's from next door!"

exactly, Obama, exactly.

It's from next door??? What the fuck does that even mean? Why should I give a shit?  I don't care if it's from up your ass, you can't have it in here!  Dumbass.  Anyway, a bit later they asked me for drinks and I had to turn them down, which I hate doing because it's always awkward, and I like to avoid coming right out and saying "You're drunk, bitch" unless I absolutely have to.  So I went through a few excuses, "It's 2:05 and we close at two, you brought in outside alcohol, etc."  Finally, I went with the ultra pc "I don't feel comfortable serving you as you appear to already have been drinking this evening." And what answer did that get me, you ask? One of the girls in the group looked at me and said:

"DUHHHH.  It's Friday!"

okay then.

So, to reiterate. Things I have learned.  You can break open container laws if your beer is "from next door." And you can be a drunk asshole as long as "Duh, it's Friday!"  Obviously.

Of course, my long awaited (by perhaps two people) return to blogging wouldn't be complete without a few Roasting Stories.  So let's get crackin.

January 29, 2012

"So for my dad I would like a chicken baguette, with no baguette, just a chicken.  He is gonna split it with my mom. So make it bigger, because they are adults. It has to be a decent size for 2. (I suggested they get two, but she was like: no, just make it bigger.)"

THAT IS NOT A THING. I WILL NOT DO THAT.

So. Here are some things: 1) If all you want is a chicken breast, go to the store and buy a fucking chicken breast.  2)  You cannot just have something "made bigger."  RESTAURANTS DO NOT WORK THAT WAY GOODNIGHT.

Sometimes people just make my head hurt. Anyway, I think I have time for one more story. Actually, I have time for lots of things right now because we are all going do die from snow and never leave our apartments ever again. But I want to start blogging again at least weekly, if not twice a week (I always say that) and I don't want to use up all my stories. So.  One more story to end the evening on.  Actually, no. Two stories because they're both short.

"January 30, 2012
A lady with a giant cart came in and asked me for a PB&J.  How do I say yes! to that?  I didn't. I totally said no."

Side effect of writing this blog: I am now obsessed with this octopus.

One more quick little "story" from

"January 30, 2012

A woman at table 10 found a potato on the radiator"

Honestly, I don't really have anything to say about this, other than "not surprised at all." Also, I google image searched "weird potato" and came up with this:

So, that's a thing. Dick potatoes for everybody! 

Or not. The octopus disapproves.

I still have so many roasting stories.

Yo internet! Here's a fun fact. It has now been a month....a whole MONTH since I left The Cafe!

omigod I know. I can't believe it either.

Haven't had much going on at the new gig, but there's going to be a medieval fair in the park on Saturday, so I'm sure all the code 3 whackadoos will be out, and I'll have some fun stories to share. Also, we're going to be selling turkey legs. Because nothing says class like turkey legs. We're encouraged to come in costume, but really, like I have money to go buy beer wench paraphernalia. I think not.

Okay. More stories

"January 7, 2012
Some lady called around 10 and wanted to make a 13 person "reservation" for noon

--I'm just gonna break in with some personal thoughts here.  The Cafe does not, and has never taken reservations.  No matter how many times we would explain this to people they would say things like, "well...what if we have a group" and "we're coming from far away" and "the attorney general wants to sit there."  Now really. I don't give a flying shit who you are. We don't take reservations, so fuck the hell off. But I digress.

She also wanted to order at that time (10 AM) and have the food ready exactly at noon. Uh...no. So ten people came in at noon, said they only had 30 minutes, then ordered steak sandwiches. And they wanted a free dessert "for a birthday." FUCK NO."

I'm not doing that.

Okay, so let's be real here kids. Unless you are going to a fast food place, there's no way in hell you're getting in and out at lunch in 30 minutes. Also, STEAK?! Fucking steak sandwiches! Do you know that meat has to cook? I mean do you? MEAT HAS TO COOK. Fun facts. Yeah...you're all a pain in my ass, but maybe if you ordered omelettes and salads I could get you in and out quick. STEAK SANDWICHES?! Fuck you. And you. And the eco-friendly adult scooter you rode in on.

Also...free dessert? NO. This is not a goddamn TGIFridays.

Please note: I worked at a TGIFridays for 3.5 years and found it lovely. 

But this is NYC. So no you can't have a "birthday dessert." You can buy a dessert and I will make them put a candle in it to shut you the fuck up. That is all.

Anyway. On to yet another story, also from 1/7/2012

Table 41- "Can I get a flashlight?! I lost the cap of my tooth!"

I don't recognize the handwriting on this one, so I don't know who wrote this, but honestly I'm just confused. Why do you need a flashlight? Are you going to open your mouth like a gaping chasm of doom and make me look in there? What is that? Who are you? I DON'T UNDERSTAND.  I do remember one time this lady came in at like 8 in the morning and demanded to look through ALL the garbage cans because she may have left her teeth in the bathroom the previous night.  And you know. sympathy for the dentures and all, but how did you leave WITHOUT YOUR DAMN TEETH the previous night? Isn't that something you kind of miss?

Bitches are insane. So glad I'm not working on the UWS anymore. And really, it hasn't been the same since Matt Damon moved to California.

I'm sure I'll encounter at least one or two ren fair loonies on Sunday though. And I just can't wait.

UPDATE!!

Addendum to the "tooth cap" story. One of my former co-workers has just informed me that they were working the night of the tooth cap incident and sent me a message with more detail:

"Love your blog. I worked the night of "lost the cap of my tooth". Next to 41 mice/roaches were running in and out by the heater pipe, remember? We were afraid that we will find animals instead of the fuckin' tooth! And there it was. The tooth cap on the floor! I couldn't believe it."

And there you have it.

dirty socks and creepy bread

Holy crap! Can it really have been almost two weeks since I've updated this blog? In my defense, I've been super busy doing important things and being important and stuff. Or...y'know...waiting tables.

The time must be going somewhere though because I haven't done laundry in almost a month, and I'm starting to run out of options.

I was going to update last Saturday, but I had to go to a crazy lamesauce wedding where they spent the entire ceremony warning the newlyweds about the "lure of the devil." So that was fun.

Some of my old regulars from the Cafe found me on Facebook, and according to everybody the entire place sucks balls now, and honestly who's going to tell all the crazy stories, if I'm not there to document them?  Luckily we're not even close to finished.

January 3, 2012

"Can I get the account, please?"

Apparently, this customer meant "the check." People are friggin weird.

January 4, 2012

"Tonight somebody came up to me and told me that somebody else had left their gloves next to the window. They were socks. Worn, dirty, SOCKS.."

Honestly, I don't even understand this bullshit, because this crap happened in January, which means either they changed their socks at the restaurant, or just took off socks at the restaurant and then....walked out into the winter? What the fuck? Who are you?  I bet you have foot herpes or corns or warts or something. Leaving nasty ass socks all over the place.


January 6, 2012

Table 17 brought their own bread and asked Meredith to make it into a sandwich.

NO. Just, NO.

And honestly, that wasn't the last time that happened.  A few weeks before I quit the cafe some crazy lady brought her own bread for me to toast.  WHY?!? Why would you do that?  First of all, it's just a dumb stupid awful pain in the ass thing that you should never ever do....but also, isn't it like, against health code to bring in outside food? I don't know where the fuck your food has been. Maybe that bread was just in your pants. I don't know!  Of course at that place, it was God forbid we ever say "no" to one of the precious UWSiders, so of course I'll take your bread and lovingly toast it with golden sunshine rays straight from the eyes of the baby jeebus.

One of the things I love about my new place is that people can't order anything that's not on the menu. And for the most part, the guests are pretty decent.

Of course, today I had a septuagenarian guy ask me if I'm a swimmer because he lives in a complex with a giant indoor pool and he wants to me to know I'm always welcome. So, you know , that's fun.

I promise myself to update this  more frequently. I've also been promising myself that I'll do the laundry, and that has yet to happen. 

One of these days. It'll happen!

Old stories and new stories

   I'd apologize for not updating this blog in over a week, but I've been busy with the new job, and a new improv class, and driving people's pets to Ohio and stuff. Seriously. I lead a very exciting and fulfilling life.
I went by the Cafe last Sunday to pick up my final check and found out they were featuring this as a special:

I'd like to say that everything has gone to hell in my absence, but really....shit like this has always happened.  Because nobody really gives a fuck.  Lame shanks are lame, bro. It's just how it is.

I have a couple stories from the new Uptown Restaurant, though none so exciting as anything that ever happened at The Cafe.

Mainly, Tuesday night I waited on Dr Ruth, who to my great surprise was actually still alive. She's batshit as fuck but in the best way possible. She also came equipped with a handbag stuffed with "Sex for Dummies" key chains  and proceeded to hand them out to everybody in the damn restaurant.  Seriously.  When I first greeted her she asked me if I could make her plain pasta, and when I said I was pretty sure we could but I would have to check, she said "I am Dr Ruth. I will give you sex for dummies key chain." Okay then.

I also somehow wound up with two key chains, so now I have obviously have to wear them as earrings.

We're also selling pie that saves kids or some bullshit.  I keep forgetting what the thingy actually is, but all the proceeds for this pie that we sell goes to like, starving children and crap. Which is cool. It also makes me want to tell people that if they by any desert other than pie a child will die a horrible death.  

Because I'm an asshole.

Anyway. I  continue to sift through years of backlog and look at hilarious stories of Roasts of Yore.

Apparently at one point we were keeping a running tally of which busboy could break the most glassware in a single shift.  I don't remember who the fuck Mohammed was, but apparently he broke a shit ton of glasses. I imagine he's somewhere else breaking large amounts of glass on a much grander scale.  

Oh and then there was this:

Jan 2, 2012

Old man eats oatmeal with a fork. I show him the spoon I've brought, and he continues eating oatmeal with his fork.

Yes, that happened to me.  And weirdly enough, that's the kind of shit I miss and don't miss at the same time. Weird fuckers eating oatmeal with forks.

In the meantime, I shall continue to sell life saving pie, and revel in the lack of complaints that creme brulee "tastes like burnt cream" Yes, that actually happened.

Hopefully I'll return later this week with more stories. Lord knows I have plenty left.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

    I guess now that it's officially over, I should probably announce that after a little over 4 years, I finally left The Cafe. I got a job bartending and serving at a nice restaurant uptown and  for the most part I've really been enjoying it.  Of course, you'll find assholes anywhere. You know, like the women I waited on Monday. I made the mistake of saying "good morning" to them at 12:00PM and they smirked at me as though I were and idiot and said, "Actually it's noon."  Dear god, I'm so sorry I offended you poor women. Please accept my most humble of apologies and bend over so I can kiss your ass. God, you're wonderful.

That being said, for the most part it's relatively tame. I shall be continuing this blog documenting stories from the past four years at The Cafe, as I was there for so long and started this blog less than six months ago.

Gratifying tidbit from my second to last shift:

(After telling my regulars the following day would be my last day)
"Wow! I guess this is our last time here then !"

BOOM! IN YOUR FACE MOTHERFUCKERS!
(To be clear, the aforementioned motherfuckers would be some colleagues giving me trouble at work, and not the regulars, who were actually quite delightful.)

Also, I left a surprise in the break room for my friends:

Why yes, I did hang my uniform shirt from the ceiling panel. 

Alright. Now that housekeeping is taken care of, let's catch up on some old school Roasting updates.

Dec 7, 2011

"Hi Sir! One or two today?"

"One or two WHAT?"

"Uh....people"

*blank stare*

I remember that guy. He sat himself at a two top, so I went over with two menus and attempted to inquire as to whether he'd be a part of one or two. Obviously I should have used smaller words, or pantomime, or maybe finger puppets.  I love it when I ask people questions that are so simple like "would you like a beverage?" or "are you ready?" and they stare at me like I've grown another head. It's kind of great.

Dec 8, 2011

After pouring a bar guest a new glass of wine she looks up and asks, "Are you going to charge me for that?" SERIOUSLY? Of course I am not to mention that even if I didn't you would still only leave me two dollars.

This is another great one. I love how this bitch was just acting like my bartender was forcing wine on her.  She wouldn't have poured another glass unless you ordered another. And...fun fact guys....if you order something you pay for it. Stunning concept, I know.

Anyway, I'm sure I will have a few stories here and there at the new place, but The Cafe was such a weird fucking place to work, and I have so many stories, that for now I'm going to keep this blog exclusively dedicated to my time there. If you can think of anything you'd like me to write about, suggestions are also always welcome. Keep reading!

Self seating, special milk pitchers, tiny pieces of steak, and so much more.

Hi Internet! It's been a week since I blogged, but it feels like forever. Anyway.  I'd just like to take this moment  to point out what a horrible asshole thing it is to seat yourself in a restaurant that has a hostess. It happens all the time at The Cafe and usually it's either:

1) People seat themselves on the patio and then look confused and panicky when somebody doesn't come out to wipe their ass within 30 seconds

or

2) People who come in the door, blow past the hostess, and choose their own table while the hostess runs to catch up. Even better than those who self seat are those who self seat and then move because omigod that table was horrible how do you expect me to sit there.

Quite honestly, I have been known to "punish" self seaters by pretending not to notice them and then acting completely surprised when they finally catch my eye by waving insanely. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Did you seat yourself? We normally seat our guests, so that must be why I didn't notice you!"

Basically, self seating at a restaurant with a host is like busting into somebody's house without knocking and ignoring them while you try out their furniture.  On a related note: STOP MOVING THE CHAIRS AROUND. All the chairs are the same. fuck off.


A few weird things happened this past week. My co-worker came back to the wait station last Sunday and told me that her table had requested the kitchen cut up her steak for her because it would be "too much work." I looked at the table in question, expecting to see some 1-top old woman with arthritis, and instead saw an able bodied group of 20 somethings drinking mimosas. Obviously.

Oh and then I also waited on a pair of women who ordered some coffee and tea, and THIS bullshit conversation happened:

Tea Drinker: I need milk
Coffee Drinker: Oh, you can have mine! I drink coffee black, so I won't use this at all.
Tea Drinker: No, I can't use that. I need my own.

I actually don't understand what you mean..

See this is the kind of shit that gets me in trouble because I actually get really confused by nonsensical requests and kind of stand there with this "wait....what did you just say?" look on my face. Because...I can't believe separate milk creamers actually matter. Seriously. Somebody please explain to me why that matters. I'll give you five dollars if you can give me a good reason.  Keep in mind that the milk pitcher that the first lady offered to the second lady was completely untouched and had just been placed on the table. I just....can't with that bullshit.

Of course, none of this previous nonsense mattered by Thursday when this showed up outside work:

 Yup kids. It's the weed mobile. Selling supposedly weed infused lollipops.

Delicious candies.

So of course our morning shift was derailed by sending the hostess out to acquire weed lollipops. Who the fuck knows if they're legit or not. One of my co-workers ate one and said they were fine, but not very strong.  I have a couple but haven't tried them yet.  That would be a fucking brilliant scam though. Buy a truck, pimp it out with artwork, and sell generic drug store suckers for five bucks a pop. I mean, hell that thing would pay for itself in a day.  I shall keep you posted on the effects or non-effects of said weed lollipops.  For science purposes obviously.

Freaky Friday.

    Can we just take a minute to talk about how weird yesterday was? Yesterday was fucking weird, man. And I totally got home and was all set to write about everything, and then I went to bed at 7 o clock. Because I'm cool like that.

Anyway, yesterday my day started out with a table that was having some sort of toilet brush based focus group/sales meeting/sales pitch thing going on.

Toilet brush. It's what's for breakfast.

Anyway, it was a group of four and I guess the head toilet brush guy was demonstrating this new moving squeeze handle thing on the handle part of the brush and showing it to his companions- not to worry, he brought along toilet brushes for them as well. So 8AM yesterday my day started with four weirdos waving toilet brushes in the air.  That was fun.

Shortly after that I progressed to waiting on yet another OldMan McRichpants, big fucking surprise. He was nice enough to me, in a condescending old white man sort of way, and even complimented me on my service.  However, on one of my trips to refill his coffee I heard him tell his breakfast companion that he "just isn't making enough to get by anymore."

Sir, your Fancy Pants Rich Guy Suit begs to differ. I seriously want to know what "not enough" is to this guy. Will he have to sell his vacation home? Shop at Trader Joes instead of Zabars? Move to a smaller apartment? Even....*GASP*....start taking the subway?!?!

Oh, sweet Suit Man. My heart aches for you. Truly.

On the other end of the spectrum, about an hour after that some homeless guy came in and proceeded to bathe his entire body in the restroom and then it stank all day. Actually I still haven't gone into that restroom because I'm scared of cooties, although god knows that's far from the worst thing anybody has ever done in the bathroom. (See leg juice)

Later that afternoon a guy came in and dropped his car keys off with us and told us we had to hold them and his daughter would be by to pick them up later. Because we're a goddamn valet service

Oh and then a man I'd never seen before came in and wanted to know when we "stopped serving garlic bread" because he used to have it here "ALL THE TIME"

Today was pretty normal aside from some old man puking all over table 13. Ironically, this was the same table that had been hosting the toilet brush party yesterday. Too bad they weren't here today.  Fun thing about the puking guy.  He was in a wheelchair, so he may indeed have had trouble getting to the bathroom in a timely manner on his own, but he was accompanied by four other people, he told them he was  going to be sick, and rather than one of them helping him to the bathroom they just let him puke all over the table.  Because reasons.

So, to wrap up:

We are here to:

Host your toilet brush meetings

Provide public showers

Provide valet service

Do banking (ie make change even if you aren't a customer)

Let your goddamn puke fly all over the place.

The Madcap Adventures of Turtle Man and Raccoon Lady

The other day two of our most notorious "animal" guests where in at the same time, and I almost felt like I was in some sort of low rent zoo. To be fair, most days at work I feel like I'm in a low rent zoo, but that's kind of to be expected.

There's a man who comes in that everybody calls "Turtle Man," because he looks like a fucking creepy ass turtle.  He's probably in his 60s, he walks hunched over with a cane, and he has giant glasses. He also usually wears a bucket hat.  And I should mention the reason that he walks hunched over is that he has some kind of back brace equipment strapped to him, and normally I'd never make fun of somebody with a genuine medical condition, but he's so damn weird and annoying that he's exempt from any exemptions of mockery.

He actually looks a little like this:

except older and more hunched over and not wearing a big green suit...and okay maybe only vaguely like this

Turtle Man requires a full glass of ice on the side for his glass of tap water, extra napkins, and no matter what he orders he asks for a soup spoon. He has never actually ordered soup.   He usually orders a steak and eggs or a roast chicken, and woe to those who don't bring him a soup spoon ahead of time. He will get up and start waving.  It happens.  I'm not sure what he does with the soup spoon, since I've never actually watched him eat. I just know what when he's finished his plate is a mess and he only ever tips two dollars no matter how much his bill is.

The Raccoon is a whole different breed of crazy.  She has crazy dark brown hair that seems to be a cross between an 80s perm and a mullet,  but more importantly she has her entire eye area covered in black makeup.  All around the eye. Big black circles. We've actually debated whether or not this make up is tattooed on or if she actually just smears big sticks of charcoal around her eyes every morning. The Raccoon comes in with her comparatively normal looking husband/boyfriend/whatever and they always get one cup of coffee and one order of scrambled eggs.  If the eggs are too well scrambled they will send them back. They also request a bread basket, but only the brown bread, not the white bread, and for the love of god don't forget to give them jelly.

I long for the day when I can tell Turtle Man we are out of soup spoons, and Raccoon Lady that there's a shortage of brown bread. I doubt it'll ever happen, but it's good to have dreams.

In other news, all that ever plays on our radio any more is six different versions of  "Girl From Ipanema" and now the slightest mention of that song makes me want to punch somebody.

Flashback Friday, etc.

     Before I get into the whole Flashback Friday thing, I just want to take a moment and jot down a couple weird things my co-workers said yesterday.  A few weeks ago I wrote a blog about our busboy Fonzie, and his weird love of Saved by the Bell, among other thing. Anyway yesterday he just came up to me, said "Star Wars" and walked away. Not like, "Yeah, I love Star Wars!" or "Hey, I just watched Star Wars!" just...moderate, calm voice..."star wars" and continued on his merry way. I really have no idea what the fuck that was about but....hey....Star Wars everybody.

Oh and then I had the following conversation with my little Ukrainian co-worker.

He: I am so stupid!

Me: You're not stupid, you're just from Ukraine.

He: What does this mean?

Me: It doesn't mean anything. It's just me teasing you about where you're from. You know, like when you say somebody isn't stupid, they're just from Florida.
He: Oh! Well people from Florida, they are like villagers! Everybody knows this.

Anyway, now I want a t-shirt that says "People from from Florida, they are like villagers."  I would totally wear the shit out of that shirt.

And now, let's wrap up the week with a few tales of Roastings Past.

Dec 16, 2011
Lady was here for about 3 hours, then asked to see the manager. Told Gus she didn't have any money because she's "dealing with settlements" but would pay us by January 2nd.

Okay, I totally remember this lady.  I guess I could have put this in the Funny Money blog from earlier this week, but I forgot about it til now.  Anyway. I remember this pretty distinctly because it was the first person I dealt with that morning.  This customer was a transfer to me from the overnight waiter, and I'd guess she'd been there a while.  So she finishes eating, then asks to see the manager. Then she explains to him that she doesn't have any money, but that the police are "aware of the situation" And then she wrote us this weird IOU on the back of some prescription for rash cream.

Who the fuck goes out to a restaurant with no money??? Who does that?!  I mean luckily it was like a 15 dollar check, and we just voided it but...what? What the fuck is that? And I wondered at the time if she had tried it before. Like....just spend a small amount of money at every restaurant in the city, and then explain that you have nothing because you're "dealing with settlements" but it's okay because "the police are aware of it."

And no, she did NOT come back by January 2nd. 

This also kind of reminds me of the time that my co-worker Cris had a table who only paid half their bill, and then they left her a note with an address where she could pick up the rest of the money.

Seems legit.

A few snippets.

It's been a good couple of days for crazies! Here's a few stories.

Thursday night I worked dinner and had a woman order a chicken caesar.  Our chicken caesar comes with a full paillard style chicken breast on top.  It also comes on a plate.  That's a huge problem.  Said salad was sent back because

1) It should have been in a bowl, not on a plate
2) The chicken should have been chopped up.

She went on to tell me, "It's not that it's BAD....I've just....I've never had anything like this before!"
I honestly thought she was going to cry, her level of distress and confusion was that bad.

So that was Thursday night. Today we had a couple winners on brunch as well.  First, I had an old man order a glass of wine, a gibson, a large soda, and eventually some food and dessert.   After I gave him the bill, he waved me back over to show me something. I'd double checked it before giving it to him, and knew everything on there was correct. Or so I thought....

He waved the check at me and said angrily:

"We go through this every time! If somebody is paying 12 dollars for a cocktail, the soda is free!"

Uh....What?  Since when? Who told you that? Does it say that on the menu? Are you just pulling rules out of your ass? I didn't put a gun to your head a force you to order a twelve dollar drink AND a soda AND a glass of wine and food and coffee and dessert.  Calm your shit. Of course I had the soda voided because I was scared he'd yelp me. But seriously. Who are these people? I'm going to start making up my own rules too. Like....if you do dumb shit in my restaurant I can charge you five dollars extra for being a moron.

Last but not least we have the lovely man who ate his entire Eggs Florentine without complaint, and then told me he had a message for the chef. Of course, it started with the phrase "I don't want to complain, BUT..."

Bitch, shut up. Yes you do. You totally want to complain. If you didn't want to complain you wouldn't complain.

Anyway, this man's gripe? 

"You need to tell the chef to cut the stems off of the spinach. I mean....if he did that on Top Chef he'd be kicked off right away!"

Yeah, and if I went on Top Model I'd be kicked off right away. What the fuck does Top Chef have to do with anything? First of all, you're too whiny about your spinach, and secondly if you're going around expecting everything in life to be like a reality TV competition, you're going to have problems.

I swear, I don' t know where they come from....

Weekend Update: Blasts from the Past

Once again, I've proved myself horribly incompetent and for the second week in a row failed to write a Flashback Friday entry on an actual Friday.  Anyway, I've been delving into the Notebook of Roastings Past and reminiscing about things that happened a few years ago.

Like this delightful gem:

"Today I found a cheese sandwich sitting on a chair by the coat closet."

This was actually me. Like I've said before, the old journal that I get a lot of my old school postings from was a communal employee journal for a while, but the cheese sandwich thing actually happened to me.  I'm pretty sure it was a brunch shift, because that's when all the weirdos come out of the woodwork more than usual.  Anyway, I happened to look over towards the supply closet/bathroom area, and sitting on an extra chair was a plastic baggie containing a cheese sandwich. And I was just like....

Seriously. Bitches be leaving cheese sandwiches everywhere. Who the hell do you people think you are? I mean really.

I'll never understand people who bring extra food to a restaurant.  I mean....our purpose is to have food for you.  Do you think you'll get trapped in here and we'll run out of food and you'll need your cheese sandwich to survive? But then....if that's the case you should take better care of it and not be leaving it on random chairs by the bathroom.

I also had somebody pull out a pizza once, and just start eating it at one of the outside tables.  I didn't really know what to do, because it was after they'd already ordered a bunch of food. I just thought it was really fucking weird that they didn't like....finish eating at our restaurant and then go to a pizza restaurant or something.  Actually I can't remember if they ate the pizza pre or post brunch.  Maybe they brought it with them ahead of time because they were SO STARVING that they needed to eat a pizza while they waited for their eggs. Or something.

Speaking of fun food items, let's kick it back old school to the days of misspelled specials.  We used to have an adorable little Israeli manager.  And seriously, she was fun and I miss her, but her spelling was atrocious.
This was often listed as our soup of the day

I don't know how many times I had to explain to her that we don't want people to think our food will make them "leaky" this happened time and time again.  I think at one point we also had "Pumpkin Brisket" (bisque) soup and "Butternotscoth" cookies. I don't know what the hell a Butternotscoth is, but to me it sounds like some kind of freaky character from The Dark Crystal. 

These days there are less misspellings on the menu, and less weird random food items to be found, and I'm not sure if that makes me happy or sad.    

The weird shit keeps it all interesting, that's for damn sure.

Things you shouldn't do in a restaurant

    I wasn't planning on making such a "generic" post this week, but then my sweet overnight waiter was punched in the face late Sunday night/early Monday morning. So I thought I'd make a list of guidelines for those who seem to be in the dark on the dos and don'ts of...you know, not being a complete fucking asshole. Some of these reference past blogs, some are just things I'm thinking of off the top of my head.

DON'T
Talk to your waiter about your sex life.
This is grossly inappropriate.  I don't care how many chicks you banged, who you went to Vegas with, what sort of weird hookups you had.  I just do not want to know.

DON'T
Make gross sexual advances towards your waiter. Casual flirting/joking is fine, but don't be pushy. If the server or bartender actually IS interested in you, they'll let you know.  One time when I was a 19 year old hostess in Ohio, an old man asked me to sit on his lap. Don't do shit like that.

DON'T
Change your kid's diaper on the table in the middle of the dining room. That's fucking gross.

DON'T
Come in and shit all over the bathroom floor. We had a problem with this for a while. There was this dude we called "The Pooper" because....well, he'd come in and shit all over the bathroom floor.  We had to ban non-customers from using the restroom for a while, and of course that got people all crazy as well.

DON'T 
Wander around the outside of the restaurant topless, and then eat the potted shrubbery when a manager asks you to put a shirt on.

DON'T 
Punch your waiter in the face. Seriously. Who does that?  I don't care what you think they did, or what's going on, you can't go around punching people in the face. Wanna punch people in the face? Go start a Fight Club or some shit like that.

But really, it all comes down to:

Flashbacks: Special Requests.

Hey hey. I know I blogged on Tuesday, but it feels like it's been ages since that happened.  Normally I do a "Flashback Friday" edition of old school stories, but yesterday was July 4th, so I spent the day getting wasted, like any able bodied American woman.  Because everybody knows if you don't get drunk and/or blow shit up on July 4th, it means you hate America and then the terrorists will win


     So anyway. Today I have two stories to share with you, both written about upon request.  The first is dedicated to one of my dearest friends, Mich , who I met while working at the restaurant.  A few summers ago, we were both working a morning shift, and a somewhat insane looking woman came in and demanded a to-go coffee.  Our bartender was in the bathroom, so Mich attempted to help the woman.  Bartender returned, Mich directed the woman's attention to the bartender, and the woman asked him for a coffee.  As it happened, the bar coffee pot was empty, so our bartender asked Mich to go get him a new one, which she did.  In the meantime, he began to make drink tickets that servers were waiting on. Because...you know...why would he just stare into space and wait for a coffee pot? Gotta get shit done.  So apparently this woman thought we were all ignoring her desperate need for coffee, started screaming about splenda, and stormed out of the restaurant.  Of course in the process she shoves right by poor Mich, hits the tray that she's carrying, and ends up clocking Mich in the face with it.  Our manager at the time saw the whole thing and chased the woman down the street, which was pretty great.  So yeah.  That's the kind of customers we get in my workplace. And I love coffee. I understand the need for coffee. But I can't say that I've ever thrown a fit and clocked a waitress in the face with a tray.

    Our second story today is one that lives on in infamy for those who were there.  I almost didn't write about it because it deals with public breastfeeding, which I know is a touchy subject for many people. I'm not a parent, nor do I ever plan on being a parent, and it's not up to me to tell people how to feed their kids. Honestly 99 percent of the time, I could give a shit about women who breast feed in public, because really what are you supposed to do? Not leave your house for a year? That being said, I do think it's a little bit weird for people to be breastfeeding toddlers in public(or at all), especially when those toddlers are also eating eggs and pancakes and various other items ordered from the menu.  A couple summers ago, a rather odd looking family came in. A mom, a dad, and two boys. The older one was six or seven, and the younger one was three or four.  The younger child had a full vocabulary, was wearing sneakers, and rode into the restaurant on a tricycle.  But hey, whatever. So they sit, they order food, and then the mom takes her entire tit out of her dress and starts feeding the toddler. So he's kind of sitting there awkwardly on her lap, sneakers up on the table, sucking away.  Weird enough. Once he's finished he proceeds to leap up and run around the restaurant yelling "I eat the boob! I eat the boob!"  Oh, and then his mom looked at him and said "you love boobies don't you? yummy yummy boobies!"  So yeah, the whole thing was just really fucking creepy. And again, I know I'm in no place to comment since I'm not a parent, but I like to think if I was in charge of a kid, I'd teach them not to scream phrases like "I eat the boob!" all over the place. It's just not classy. I think at one point my co-workers and I decided that we were going to use "eating the boob" as code for being so drunk that you can't function the next morning. As in "Man, I really ate the boob last night. I'm totally hungover."  That never really caught on though, mainly because aside from myself, all the people who worked there during the great "I eat the boob" debacle of 2012 are no longer there. Ah, the memories.

So. What have we learned today?

1) Don't hit your waitress in the face with a tray.
2) Don't let your kids run around screaming about eating boobs.

Stay tuned for more lessons. Because learning is fun.

Flashback Friday: Leg Juice Edition

   This is one of those stories that I always get incredulous looks when I tell.  I almost wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't witnessed it all with my own horror stricken eyes.  Today, children, gather round and I shall tell you the story of Crazy Debbie with the Leg Juice.  Everybody who has appeared on this blog thus far has been given an alias (an easily discernible alias to those who know them, but an alias nonetheless) but I can't think of a proper one for Crazy Debbie, so Crazy Debbie she will remain.

    I first encountered Crazy Debbie on a dinner shift almost four years ago.  I had no idea what I was in for. Crazy Debbie looks a bit like a cross between a troll and one of the seven dwarfs.  She had dark glasses, a dark colored head wrap, and walked bent over with a cane.  Of course, her most striking feature was her legs.  Short, fat, stumpy little legs, wrapped in layers and layers of medical bandages.  I'm not really sure what the bandages were for, but they were always oozing some kind of pus like substance that we all came to refer to as "leg juice."

     She had a penchant for stealing napkins and sugar packets, and one of the first times I waited on her, I got the shock of my life.  Like many NYC restaurants, we use paper napkins for our lunch shift, and cloth for dinner.  She sat in my section on a dinner shift, and requested an extra napkin.  Not knowing how batshit she was, I brought over an extra cloth napkin...the napkins we had out on that particular shift.  She went berserk. "What the hell is this?" etc, screaming obscenities.  Eventually one of my co-workers took her a large pile of paper napkins, which she then began to cram into her purse.

     Crazy Debbie also had a tendency to use her cane as a weapon. She'd stick it out into the aisle, and poke you with it to get your attention. I can recall at least one instance of her whacking the hostess with it, while the hostess was attempting to seat somebody.  If she was feeling "nice" she wouldn't hit you, and only loudly beat the cane on the floor.  However, all these quirks are merely "cute little antics" compared to the legendary escapades of Debbie's time in the bathroom.

     Crazy Debbie would use our bathroom to do whatever the fuck she needed to do with her bandage wrapped pus ridden legs, as well as, you know...normal bathroom functions.  We all became way too familiar with these rituals, because she never ever locked the door. We would speak to her about it. We would show her how the door locked. And yet, she always refused to lock the door because "what if I fall and I can't get out of the bathroom?"  So of course, inevitably a staff member or a guest would open the bathroom door, be visually assaulted with a crazy woman on a toilet, and then be subjected to her waving the cane and them and screaming to get out of "her" bathroom.  I remember once a little kid walked in on her, and came out looking like he'd been traumatized for life. At one point one of my managers made an "out of order" sign that she'd stick on the bathroom whenever she saw Crazy Debbie enter it. Eventually, it just got to be too much. About two and a half years ago one of my managers finally told Crazy Debbie that if he caught her leaving the bathroom unlocked one more time, she'd be banned.  Which, of course she did. So in that way we were finally able to get rid of her.

    I'm not sure where Crazy Debbie is these days. Most likely waddling along, terrorizing another restaurant staff into submission with screams and cane beatings. Wherever she is, it's not where I am, and for that I'm truly thankful.

Brunch shenanigans.

A couple things that happened today:

A woman came up to me and said "I'm going to leave my bag in the corner there while I use the bathroom. Just....I didn't want you to think it was a bomb or something."

Well SHIT. Now I think it's a bomb!  It wouldn't have occurred to me at all to be suspicious of a bag at a table, until you know...you fucking suggested it may or may not be exploding some time in the near future.

But, you know. It wasn't a bomb and we live to roast another day.

On an even more bizarre note, a man came in this morning and asked for the general manager. He said he'd already spoken to the overnight manager and wasn't happy with the results.  According to my manager, this dude came in barefoot last night, was refused service on grounds of aforementioned barefoot-ness, and then began to yell that somebody in the restaurant had stolen his shoes. Apparently he also called the cops, and demanded to look at the security cameras.  Anyway, he showed up again this morning and kept yapping about missing shoes.  Fun.

What's in a name?

   Yesterday I was at work and I accidentally bumped into my co-worker in the wait station.  We had a good laugh about it and I said, "Oh! Hello there!"  Our  busboy Fonzie was standing nearby, and immediately responded to this with:

"Hello? Like Lionel Richie?"  And then he started singing:

PS. Did anybody else realize there was a really weird lengthy intro to this video?  God, the internet teaches me something every day.

So anyway. Now I can say I've heard "Hello" poorly sung in broken English by a Mexican busboy....and really, if something like that doesn't make you smile, nothing will.

However. This was not Fonzie's first foray into old school pop-culture references.   Fonzie has been calling me "Kapuffski" for the past few years, and the first few times he did it, I honestly had no idea what he was talking about, but I let it slide because....well he's just fucking weird and I figured it was some weird thing only he understood.

To understand where he's going we need to backtrack a little. All the dudes have various ways of pronouncing my name. It's never bothered me, because I'm sure I have a horrible American accent when pronouncing their names, so really...who am I to judge? I've been called Kayla, Kite-leen, Kaylynn, and even Kissling. Really, none of this bothers me aside from the fact that "Kissling" somehow devolved into "Kase" which gave way to "Esslee" which is really nothing at all like my name. But hey, whatever.

Anyway. Fonzie has always pronounced my name "Kaylynn," which...close enough. After I'd worked with him for a few months, he started calling me "Kapuffski."  Again, no idea where that's coming from, but never cared enough to question it.  Then he started calling me "Kaylynn Kapuffski."  Til one day he finally comes right out and asks me:

"You know? Kaylynn Kapuffski from the TV?"

No. No I do not know Kaylynn Kapuffski from TV. I still have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. We go through a few  more awkward  moments of insistence that I must know what he's talking about, followed by Fonzie exclaiming:

"On the TV! Kaylynn Kapuffski! With Screech, you know? Screech is my favorite!"

I finally figured out what he was referencing

KELLY KAPOWSKI

Motherfucking Kelly Kapowski. From "Saved By the Bell."  This is how Fonzie's brain works.  Anyway, nearly 4 years later he still calls me "Kapuffski," and honestly...at this point I've just given up.

On a not restaurant related but definitely Kelly Kapowski related side-note, I'd like to point out that THIS glorious piece of artwork came up in my "kelly kapowski" google image search.

Yes. A scary Kelly Kapowski tattoo is actually a thing. Sweet dreams, kids.

Flashback Friday!

Per usual, today will be a celebration of excerpts from "The Book"

Anything in bold italics is recounted here exactly as it was originally notated.

Nov 7, 2011

Some lady was yapping about getting dysentery from tomatoes.

Because, you know....that's a thing.  Looking back, I could have had much more sucess with my Oregon Trail games of years past.

Events of November 15, 2011

1. Homeless man shows us his pubic hair while demanding bread and butter
2.  Homeless man asks for can opener to indulge in his can of corn. After being told that we don't carry can openers, a guest demands that we bring his can to the kitchen to open it.
3. An innocent young girl, sitting at table 10.got her purse stolen from the back of her chair. A car that was passing by told her that a lady just grabbed her purse.  The young girl ran down Broadway to see the old lady toss her purse in the trash.
4.  A woman left the bathroom door open while relieving her lady parts. Not unlocked, OPEN.

Wow. Evidently November 15 was a hell of a day.   I think I may actually need to dedicate a future entry to all the weird shit that people do in our bathrooms. Because...I mean...there was the woman who used to go in and change her juicy leg bandages, the guy who used to shit all over the floor, the people who just didn't lock the door, and of course that woman body-checked a guy who was politely waiting in line for the bathroom and started screaming "You can't go before me!!!"

I guess we'll do one more flashback story before we close for the weekend.  Real quick:

November 17, 2011

A woman at 46 looks at the specials and asks, "Is this food?"

No, bitch it's a fuckin practical joke.  We just PRETEND to have food, to mess with your head.  "Bouillabaisse" is actually code for "something that is totally not food, and I'm just going to bring you a can of Febreeze instead."

I swear to god, writing this blog I'm going to run out of eye roll gifs.

My Heart Belongs to Jammy

    One of our food runners is a rather portly Bengali fellow called Jammy Jam Jam.  I mean, not really, but that's close enough to his real name, and that's often how I refer to him in person.  I've worked with Jammy for almost 4 years now, and when he's not busy panicking over the amount of mustard in the wait station, he's kind of my favorite person.

Number one rule for getting along with Jammy: have lots of mustard. Mustard is important.

I can't really think of one specific incident that describes his character, so I suppose I'll just recall a series of anecdotes that seem to define him.

Jammy is a rather gregarious, outgoing fellow, and he loves to laugh...even if he doesn't understand the joke.  One of my own standard responses for all situations is the phrase "your mom," and for some reason he ended up latching on to this. It took a while, of course.  After he heard me use the phrase several times, he initially tried to use it in his own way. It began with

"C! How's your mum?"

which in turn led to,

"Why you hate mom so much?"

which finally led to this exchange,

Me: "Hey, is table 13 going to be ready any time soon?"

Jammy: "Your mom at table 13!"

Bravo, son. Bravo

Truly, I couldn't be prouder.

There was also that time when a trainee was complaining that a table had been somewhat snotty with her, and Jammy overheard her complaining.  His response?  "They make trouble? Send C over, she tell them 'YOU MOM'!"  Pretty much.

Jammy likes to come in and greet you by asking "How are you? Medium rare?"  (I still have yet to determine whether being "medium rare" is a good thing or a bad thing.)  Or often he'll refer to the temperament of an unknown entity by saying "She is very rare now." I still have no idea what any of this means.

Of course one of the most interesting things about Jammy is his fascination with all things homosexual.  Jammy is married (to a woman) but he's constantly talking about being gay, and grabbing any male employee he can get his hands on. One time my buddy GB actually spent brunch keeping a tally chart of the number of times Jammy grabbed his ass during the shift.  

Or there was that time a few years back, right after gay marriage was legalized when Jammy spent the dinner shift carrying around a picture of a couple otherwise naked dudes wearing ass-less chaps and telling us all they were his friends who had just gotten married.  Um....no. Those are not your friends. Those are some dudes you found while trolling the internet.  And quite honestly, they'd probably be terrified of you if they ever met you.

Jammy has a love of all things phallic. More than once I've caught him standing in the kitchen, fondling a salami. This is neither a lie, nor a euphemism.  Or there was the time when I had an interaction with a table who said they wanted brussel sprouts without chorizo, then with chorizo, then back and forth etc etc.  I was in the back recounting this story, and Jammy over heard, then responded with:

"No more chorizo! Tell them runner has got salami for them!"  And then he grabbed his dick.

Jammy makes me laugh, but he's not always fun and games.  He often stresses during brunch, and will run over anyone and anything in his way. If you're remotely near him when he wants to run food, he'll start to scream. Either that, or he'll start yelling "Beep beep!" Because, you know...that stuff helps.

Mostly though, he makes me giggle, especially when he starts yelling nonsensical phrases like "Next time, DOWNSTAIRS!" for no apparent reason.

He's weird as fuck, and somewhat insane, but I do love him. Just make sure that man has enough mustard to get him through the day.

Flashback Friday: Paid Escorts Edition

     One of my favorite things that has ever happened at work happened a little over 3 years ago, when I dealt with a cranky old man and his somewhat sub-par paid escorts.  It was around 10 or so in the evening, early spring 2011, and a rather odd trio came in.  It was a man in his late 60s/early 70s and two very young women.  They ended up sitting in my section, and I remember  trying to figure out the relationship between the three of them early on.  One of the girls had an American accent, and the other had some sort of Eastern European accent, so I thought maybe I was dealing with a cranky old man, his daughter, and his mail-order bride.  Oh no.  The truth ended up being so much better.

     They were an odd party to begin with. They changed tables about three times and bickered over the menu.  Eventually they ended up getting bottled water, wine, cocktails, and a shit ton of food. First course comes out, no problem.  They finish it, I clear the plates away, bring new silver, etc. A few moments later I go over to see if they want more cocktails, and as I'm taking the order, all of the sudden the man looks at one of the girls and yells:

"STOP PLAYING ON YOUR PHONE AND ACT LIKE AN ESCORT! I PAID 800 DOLLARS FOR THIS DATE!"

Oh. My. God.  I'd like to say, I stayed pretty damn calm when this happened, and managed not to bust up laughing.  It was supremely awkward though, so I just kind of muttered "Uh....I'll give you a minute" and walked away backwards.  I turned around to see our bartender at the time absolutely losing his shit, which was kind of amazing. I mean...this dude was so stoic and rarely laughed. Very serious, middle aged Israeli guy. Every now and then he'd crack a joke or two, but for the most part he was pretty stone faced.  Not when this happened. He was laughing so hard he was shaking, and for a second I thought he was going to wet himself.  It was that great.

Anyway. I'm sort of keeping an eye on the table from a distance, and I see the phone girl get up, throw her napkin on the ground, and leave.  Prior to the phone girl leaving, the other girl had been trying to mediate and I guess calm the old man down, but it wasn't really working.  So the dramatic exit happens, and you can see the other girl kind of going over the situation in her head....you know, her girl left so maybe she should go after her, but on the other hand she's getting paid, so maybe she should stay.  Speaking of which....is the 800 dollars for the two of them, or is it 800 dollars per girl?  Inquiring minds want to know.

After a few moments, the second girl leaves. Then it gets good.  Remember when I said they ordered a shit ton of food? For the second course the girls had each ordered two entrees, and the man had ordered one as well.  So after all this business at the table happens, the old man is sitting at the table by himself, and then five friggin huge plates of food come out.  And of course the food runner is totally nonplussed by the fact that a cranky old man is now sitting completely alone, and just keeps putting the food down on the table.  At this point I'd kind of decided that I wasn't going anywhere near this guy unless he beckoned me over, because the whole thing was just too weird for me.

So he sits there awkwardly for a minute, kind of tasting a little something from each plate. Then he waves at me. I steel myself and go over.  Before I can even say anything, he opens the conversation with this:

He: That's the last time I go out with a 21 year old!
Me: Oh...uh....yeah...
He: How old are you?
Me: (kind of thinking "oh crap" in my head, but too flabbergasted to do anything but be honest) 28.
He: See! You're mature! You wouldn't do what they just did! *pause* Do you know what Bemelman's is?
Me: Uhh...no?
He:  Bemelman's is the most expensive bar in Manhattan! I told these girls I'd take them anywhere they wanted for dinner, and then we would go to Bemelman's!  Shouldn't they treat me nice? Shouldn't they be better to me? etc etc.

I ended up just saying yes and agreeing with him that he'd been horribly mistreated, mainly because he hadn't paid his bill yet, and I didn't want him to ask me to void any of those uneaten entrees off of his check.

A few minutes later he asked for the check, gave me some "dating advice" that I honestly don't remember, and left.

Over three years later that's still one of the best things I've ever dealt with at work.

I like to think that cranky old man is out there somewhere, wining and dining escorts who don't play on their phones, treating them to a life of luxury at "Bemelmans" that many girls can only dream of.  Oh...if only...